


rocks in the pathway break my skin

by librarby



Series: ocd jon [4]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Episode: e132 Entombed (The Magnus Archives), Gen, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-14 08:21:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28542468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/librarby/pseuds/librarby
Summary: Jon talks to the tape recorder.(It’s not a compulsion, not really. He doesn’thaveto record.He does, though.)[title from heretic pride by the mountain goats]
Relationships: Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Alice "Daisy" Tonner
Series: ocd jon [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1864858
Comments: 4
Kudos: 18





	rocks in the pathway break my skin

**Author's Note:**

> this fic explores obsessive compulsive disorder, based off my own experiences with ocd. it does not represent all ocd experiences!  
> this fic is part of [a series](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1864858)! reading the other fics are not needed to understand this fic, but is greatly appreciated & allows for a better representation of jon's ocd :—)

Jon situates his desk as far away from the coffin as he can. 

It screeches and scrapes against the floor as he drags it across his office, but apparently neither Melanie nor Basira care to check on him. Not that he blames them, of course. 

He stares at the coffin for hours at a time, feeling some tug deep within his chest, calling out from down below. 

Cutting off his finger doesn’t work. And, in reflection, it probably wouldn’t be a useful anchor considering he feels nothing but contempt for his hands at this point. He puts the knife down next to him on the desk and breathes hard, watching the wound close up in the very same way the dry skin along his knuckles seals up in seconds even after he washes his hands for ten straight minutes. 

(He’s seen the way Rosie flinches when he passes her a document over the desk. Or how Melanie refuses to look at him but still picks at the skin around her cuticle when he passes by. Or how that same research assistant in the library stops what he’s doing just to stare at his hands and wince visibly.) 

Jared Hopworth cleanly pulls out a rib. Then he yanks out another and drops it at Jon’s feet. 

Jon picks it up gingerly and tries not to think about what sort of dirt would be present on the floors of the Distortion. 

The coffin lid is heavy, but he still manages to pry it open. A set of stairs lead down, swallowed up by darkness. The pull is stronger now, rising from a dull pressure to a yanking sensation. 

He attempts to steady himself with a deep breath, but a puff of dust gets sucked into his lungs and he coughs for a good minute. When he finally catches his breath, he picks up the tape recorder and forces himself to descend. 

The dirt is _everywhere_. It presses against Jon’s entire body, maddeningly disproportionate on all slides. 

He can feel mud and soil inching under his clothes, beneath his fingernails, down his throat. At one point he swears he feels the wet drag of a worm across the back of his neck. 

(Jon thinks about the lemon scented soap that Martin used to buy for the break room. The pressure relaxes for just a split second before it’s back again. 

He’s too busy gasping for air to notice the coincidence.) 

Jon talks to the tape recorder, half because he wants to drown out the gasps of those begging him to save them, to _just wait, please, god I can’t breathe, just get me out of here, please—_ and half because he’s unsure what else to do. 

(It’s not a compulsion, not really. He doesn’t _have_ to record. 

He does, though.) 

These days, the tape recorder feels like another limb, settling in the palm of his hand like it’s supposed to be there. It’s one of the few things he’s allowed to touch, something that he knows only he has come into contact with. 

He presses one of the buttons and grimaces when he feels the slick mud on the surface. 

When he finds Daisy, she’s gasping out breaths like she’s being crushed under concrete. He stretches until it feels like his arm is going to pop out of its socket. 

“Daisy!” 

“Jon? Jon!”

Jon finds her hand through the dirt. It’s damp and covered in mud, but he wraps his fingers around and holds on tight. 

Daisy’s apologies are drowned out by the landslide that sweeps them both away. 

They sit in darkness. 

“You’re bleeding.” Daisy says. Her tone is flat, like she’s reading off a script. 

“That’s my...my hands.” Jon says, having to pause to suck in some much needed air. “S-Sorry. I guess my healing, _ah fuck,_ my healing is limited down here.” 

If she’s processed anything he’s said, she makes no indication. “I didn’t think I could still smell—” She’s cut off by another landslide, though they manage to hold tight to one another through this one as well. 

(Jon ignores the way the lacerations along his knuckles sting as he grips her hand.) 

Daisy gives him a statement.

Jon doesn’t say “Statement ends”, knows that no amount of safe phrases or numbers will save them. 

When the pull in his chest returns, Jon initially wonders if he’s having a panic attack. He’s felt it that way before, a rising pressure against his sternum after seeing a number sequence on the microwave in the break room. But this feels different, like a warmth sprouting inside of him. 

He pulls Daisy along behind him, other hand wrapped around the tape recorder. Static wraps around them, not quite a barrier but right now? Right now, it’s good enough. 

They push against the coffin lid to reveal dozens of tape recorders. The office door slams open and there’s Basira, shouting at Jon. She freezes upon seeing Daisy, the folder she’s holding slipping out of her hands and fluttering to the ground. 

(Jon allows her to help Daisy out of the coffin. Beholding presses against the door in his mind, trying hard to let him know the scientific names of all the germs covering his body. 

He washes his hands at the sink in the break room. The basin turns muddy brown with, well, _mud_. The soap stings inside the cuts that still haven’t had the chance to heal in the few minutes since he’s been back under The Eye’s gaze. 

It’s lemon scented.) 

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr @ jonbinary! comments and kudos bring me unbeknownst joy :—)


End file.
